


Auld Acquaintance

by DameRuth



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HDM/Sherlock fusion, following after my previous fic, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/130817">"Traditional"</a>.  The new year is coming up, there's an invitation from Mycroft – and an unusual visitor to 221B Baker street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/gifts).



John woke up all at once, as he was wont to do since Afghanistan. For a moment everything was blank; then he began to take stock. His hand reached out and rested on the comforting warmth of his daemon, Adonia, where she lay curled against him. With that all-critical reassurance out of the way, there followed the rapid-fire thought-chain of: _healthy, safe, in London/my flat/my bed, Sunday, no clinic work, no case on with Sherlock_ , and he sighed, relaxing.

'Nia stretched her long Alsatian legs in four different directions at once and yawned prodigiously. “Good morning,” she said.

“It is,” John agreed. He considered staying warm under the covers a bit longer, but he was hungry and downstairs was suspiciously quiet. That meant his possibly-bored flatmate was either behaving, or getting into spectacular trouble. Best to get up.

Wrapped in his battered-but-comfortable dressing gown, John made his way downstairs, Adonia at his heels. Fortunately, Sherlock was doing nothing more exciting than lying on the sofa, also in his dressing gown and pyjamas, with his eyes closed and his hands steepled beneath his chin. He looked like a tomb effigy, but Sephronia, Sherlock's raven daemon, was perched in her usual spot atop the skull on the mantel. She was alert and bright-eyed, so Sherlock must be awake.

“Morning,” he told them both. Sherlock remained still and silent, but Sephronia bobbed her head in acknowledgement, which was unusually civil of her.

Smiling, John turned towards the kitchen and breakfast, but stopped abruptly when he saw the new addition to the room.

“Sherlock,” he said, his smile fading, “There's a tarantula in a jam jar on our kitchen table.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said, using his best bored-into-lassitude voice. “Don't let it out.”

“That was the _last_ thing on my mind, believe me,” John replied. Adonia whined. She didn't like spiders and neither did John, but living with Sherlock conditioned one to shrug and move on – which was exactly what John did.

As he was setting the kettle to boil, Adonia said, “John, it's looking at us.”

'Nia was standing with her chin resting on the edge of the table, staring at the jam jar. The tarantula had reared up with most of its legs pressed against the glass of its prison, staring back. John could see the tiny glitter of multiple eyes, and suppressed a shudder. All the same, he felt a pang for the arachnid. God only knew what Sherlock had in mind for it.

“Sorry, mate,” he told it. “You're on your own.” The kettle whistled, and John returned to making tea. Out of habit, he made two mugs' worth, and carried them both into the sitting room. He sipped from one and set the other on the floor within easy reach for Sherlock, should his flatmate choose to accept the offering.

As he straightened, John caught sight of the heavy, expensive, cream-colored envelope affixed to the mantel with Sherlock's switchblade.

“Have you made a decision about Mycroft's invitation, yet?” John asked. “It's almost New Year.”

Sherlock snorted. “A formal evening spent 'celebrating' with Mycroft's diplomatic cronies strikes me as the most excruciating way possible to spend an evening. Unless . . .” He trailed off.

“Unless?” John prompted, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of tea.

“Unless there's a bit of intrigue to spice it up, and I begin to think that may be the case – as it were,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and cocking his head. “I believe I hear a client I've been expecting-– do go and let him in.”

As Sherlock spoke, John registered the sound of someone coming up the stairs to their flat; Sherlock, with his exceptional hearing, must have noticed the front door opening.

John was torn between answering the door in his dressing gown, promptly, or changing into more appropriate clothing and losing time. Whoever it was (and they were making enough racket for several someones on their way upstairs) seemed to be in a hurry, so John opted for the former. Anyone who planned on hiring Sherlock Holmes had best get used to a little eccentricity. John in his dressing gown would be the least of it.

A heavy – _very_ heavy – knock rattled the door on its hinges.

“Impatient,” Adonia observed under her breath, as she followed John. “Yes, coming!” he called out, setting his tea aside as he hurried to answer.

He swung open the door – and found himself looking right into the flinty, expressionless black eyes of a massive white bear.

Adonia, swearing as only a soldier's daemon can, jumped back, her tail between her legs in surprise. John gaped. The bear's face was exactly level with his own, and it was still standing on all fours, its shoulders filling the hallway.

“I am here,” it said, in a flat, booming voice, “to see Sherlock Holmes.”

John heard the familiar thump of Sherlock's bare feet hitting the floor as he sprang from the couch. “Ah, Torbjørn Sørenson! I've been expecting you. Trouble at the embassy? Do let him in, John!”

“Er. Please,” John said out of spinal reflex, standing aside and waving the gigantic creature into the flat.

The bear – the _panserbjørn_ , thankfully without its namesake armor – squeezed through the door and paced, into the sitting room with a rolling stride. It raised its head and sniffed, taking in the scents, but its black eyes were focused completely on Sherlock, who was standing with his hands in his dressing gown pockets, his curly dark hair going in all directions, and Sephronia perched on his shoulder, looking as grim and forbidding as usual. Sherlock, improbably, wore a faint smile.

After a tense silence, Torbjørn reared up onto his hind legs. (John was suddenly grateful for the high, old-fashioned ceilings that made the heating bills so unpleasant.) “Sherlock Holmes. You have grown,” the bear declared, still expressionless. “I would no longer find it easy to carry you across the snow and ice on my back.”

“I wouldn't expect you to,” Sherlock said, seriously – then his small, twitching smile broke into a wide grin and he stepped forward to hug the giant pillar of muscle, bone and fur standing in front of him. The bear reciprocated by wrapping one paw, armed with black claws as long as John's hand, around Sherlock's back in a careful embrace. Sephronia fluttered her wings to keep her balance, but otherwise held her ground.

"It's good to see you, Tor,” Sherlock said, stepping back. He was still smiling, but John saw the glint in his eye that meant a case starting up. “Despite the circumstances.”

Torbjørn dropped to all fours and rumbled. Adonia sidled close to John so she could press against his legs; not quite scared, but definitely disconcerted.

“Perhaps I did not need to come here,” said the bear, and flat though the bass voice might be, John detected a note of teasing in it. “Like your witch mother, you know everything without being told.”

Sherlock laughed. “I'd still welcome your view of the situation, Tor. For old times' sake.”

Bears cannot smile, but John had the damndest sense that Torbjørn was doing so anyway.

“I see you have already begun preparing,” Torbjørn said. He nodded towards the tarantula in the kitchen. “Have you spoken to your brother yet?”

“Of course not. I prefer to spring this as a surprise.”

“Svalbard will distance itself from any diplomatic incidents you might cause.” The bear sounded more amused, in his dry way, than threatening.

“So I'd expect. But if all goes well, there will be nothing public enough to disclaim.” Sherlock actually _winked_ when he said it.

John retrieved his tea and decided to sit down. He had a feeling that would be wise. Adonia curled up at his feet, watching the proceedings wide-eyed.

Sherlock settled back onto the sofa and Torbjorn seated himself on the floor, since there was no furniture in the room that could hold his bulk. “Now,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingertips once again and fixing the bear with a gleefully intense gaze. “Tell me everything.”

John's notebook was balanced on the arm of his chair. Moving on autopilot, he picked it up and began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to stop there, but I have no idea what happens next! *sheepish grin* If I ever figure out, I'll write it, never fear. This particular fic snippet came from a real-life moment, in which I walked into a friend's kitchen to find, yes, a great big spider in a jar on the table for no apparent reason. Our verbal exchange is pretty much exactly the one given above, followed by my friend giggling and commenting, “That sounds like something Sherlock would say.” It most certainly was, and so found its way into fanfic, and Poetry's fandom stocking.


End file.
